


For you, my queen

by sansalannistark



Series: For the North [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, If you're hardcore Dany you might not want to read, Jaime pledging to Sansa, Slight Jonerys, slight anti-Dany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 09:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansalannistark/pseuds/sansalannistark
Summary: Jaime Lannister pledges to Sansa Stark, causing mayhem at Winterfell. Season 8 AU.





	For you, my queen

**Author's Note:**

> I started this idea a while back but after an anon ask on tumblr, I changed it a little and now it's part of a series. What do I get myself into?
> 
> Enjoy lovelies and please review or I'll set Drogon on you (joking, joking... I think ;)

“I, Jaime Lannister, swear to you, Lady Sansa of House Stark, to shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“And I, Sansa Stark, vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Jaime looked up, hoping that Jon Snow wasn’t about to run over from where he stood glowering, and take his head. The hint of a smile twitched at Sansa’s lips and she nodded, once, softly.

“Rise, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime stands, bringing his head up to meet her hard gaze. Snow just growls, throws Jaime a look of utter distaste and stalks off like a true brother – although from what he hears, he is not Sansa’s brother. _Cousin then,_ that little voice in his head corrects.

“Come,” Sansa calls, holding out her arm, which Jaime obediently takes. “You must be tired. Rest, eat, and then we will talk later.” As they walk, following the rest of the gathered witnesses into Winterfell’s great hall, Jaime reflects that Sansa is so much like her Catelyn, but without the softer motherly side Lady Stark possessed. Sansa is tougher and firmer than her, self assured and strong. Where her mother’s weakness was her children, Sansa has none. _She has nothing to lose,_ he thinks sadly as he watches her greet Northern lords. Even her eyes are sad. Jaime resolves there and then, as they take their seats, that he will make her smile. Just once.

During dinner, he observes the room, keenly aware that threats lurk in every corner. He talks to Brienne, they exchange tales of the last few years as he just about manages to eat the tough Northern excuse for meat. Many lords approach the high table to speak with Sansa, Jaime notices, and after a while he observes the limpness of Sansa’s neck, the dulling of her eyes and the strain written on her mouth. It isn’t long until he realises _why._ Aside from the relentless flow of men, it is Jon and Daenerys that bother her, he realises. They are infatuated, their smiles and laughs jarring and bitter to him, as subtle as they try to be. Everytime Jon turns to kiss Daenerys, he sees Sansa’s fists clench. Jaime thinks for one absurd moment it is jealousy, that Sansa hold some affection, some feeling, for her brother-turned-cousin, but no, Sansa is not as twisted as Cersei and he, she would not lust for her family. _No,_ he realises, _she blames him for bending the knee to the Targaryen girl._ Soon enough, after Daenerys lets out a peal of laughter at some comment Jon has made, Sansa almost visibly snaps and stands abruptly. She pauses at Jaime’s chair.

“Ser Jaime, you will accompany me?” Jaime senses the question is more of a command and although he doesn’t plan on refusing, knows he could not anyway. She takes his arm and they leave the room without another word.

He has no idea where she’d leading them until they reach the outer walls, with the spectacular view of the vast Northern plains and she lets go of him, leaning heavily against the stone with a deep exhale.

“My lady,” he begins but the words freeze on the chilly night air as she turns to face him, bracing against the wall. Her pale face is contorted in anger and resentment, but still, he sees no glistening of tears that he might have expected from her.

“I hate him,” she mutters, staring behind her briefly before focuses on the Knight in front of her. “I suffered for this: I was raped, tortured, beaten and brutalised and then I escaped and we all fought for this and without me he would have lost that battle. I did not go through all of that - I did not lose my youngest brother - to see our family home go to that silver haired tyrant.”

“My lady, I am so very sorry for all you have suffered,” he manages, behind the choking feeling in his throat. Sansa looks at him curiously.

“Thank you. Brienne speaks highly of you, Ser Jaime. She says you can be trusted. She says you are an honourable man that always intended to fulfil this vow to my mother. Can I trust you?”

“Perhaps you ought to have asked me this before you accepted my allegiance, my lady,” Jaime replies with a slight smirk. Sansa returns the sentiment.

“I know you crippled my brother, that you are responsible for his fall, if that is what you imply.” Sansa sees Jaime blanch. Obviously he fears the consequences, but there simply aren’t any. Bran told them weeks before Jaime arrived at Winterfell about the truth of his fall, a fact with initially repulsed and disgusted her, giving her yet another reason to despise the Lannisters. Yet Bran can forgive him. As her brother said then, without Jaime’s push, he would never have become the three eyed raven. Surely if Bran can put the matter aside, so can she. Besides, there is a war coming and they need as the god men they can get: Sansa cannot afford to hold grudges, even if Arya still does, and she does not wish to contemplate the fact that she does not wish to find reason to quarrel with Jaime.

“I did, and I am sorry for it. I can only swear that I did it to protect my family. We do cruel things to protect the ones we love.”

“Yes, we do,” she adds sadly, nodding. Her gaze falls upon the barren wasteland beyond Winterfell’s walls and then back at him. “Nevertheless, Bran told me that without your actions, he would not be on the path he is now, as is his fate he assures me. I will not commend your actions but neither will I condemn them: you will stay and serve here as the Lord Commander of my guard. Jon may have chosen Daenerys as Queen but I am the Lady of Winterfell.

Jaime can find nothing to say. Sansa is right: Jon has chosen Daenerys, that much is clear to see, and she should have a guard in such perilous times, but why him he cannot fathom.

“Brienne will serve alongside you, naturally,” she adds.

“I am not surprised to hear.”

“She has a good heart.” Sansa pauses, observing him. “She speaks very highly of you. I know you spent a great deal of time with her when my mother set you free.”

Jaime may be a slow learner but he is no fool to Sansa's insinuations. “My lady, if you wish to know if Brienne and myself are intimately involved then I must disappoint you. She is a loyal woman and I am proud to know her but I have never sought to pursue such a relationship.”

“I did not to intrude...” Sansa begins, biting her lip. “I only wish to help my people find happiness where they can. That includes my guard.”

“And what of your own happiness?”

The question seems to take her unawares, for Sansa halts, her body stilling. She stares at him in disbelief for a few seconds and as he watches her breath settle in misty clouds on the air between them, he struggles to understand what confuses her about his question.

“I... what... of what consequence is my happiness. I am home. I have my family back.”

“I’ve never seen anyone look so broken.”

“And you would know about that would you?” she snaps, her eyes blazing and her hand fisting at her side.

“Sansa...”

“Do not dare to presume you know anything about me, Jaime Lannister. Have I once called you Kingslayer? Did I mention Cersei? Or Aerys? I would thank you kindly if you kept your opinions to yourself.”

With that, Sansa storms off along the ramparts leaving Jaime standing in the cold, thinking about what a miserably shit job he did of making Sansa trust him.

\--------

They settle into a strange arrangement. He cannot comprehend her trusting him, but trust him she does and as the long days pass he does his wordless duty, unable to think of what he can possibly say to heal the rift between them. He, Brienne and Pod alternate in shifts protecting her, though he notices that Sansa is always guarded by Brienne at nights. When he asks Brienne one day, his natural inquisitiveness biting at him, the wench just shoots him a sharp glare.

Her days are long and unpleasant: when she is not helping Jon solve the northern lords’ problems, she is sitting dining with her brother and the Queen she despises. The only time he sees her relax is when she watches the soldiers train: watching their heartening attempts at swordplay seem to bring her a sense of pride. It does not take much to realise that most of the strength of Winterfell – its soldiers, food supplies and rebuilding – are co-ordinated by Sansa. Jaime rarely sees Jon engage in any of these menial matters. Though organising the army itself and holding war council is of importance, even a battle-hardened solider like Jaime can admit that they would not be here without Sansa’s forethinking.

The first time he sees her smile is when he is training. He does not realise her presence as he spars with Brienne, a furious strength flooding over him, as if his mind senses her where he eyes cannot see her. When they end, their swords at each other’s throats and sweat dripping down their faces as they heave for air, he hears a low clap.

There she stands on the raised walkway, Podrick beside her as she gazes down to watch their fight. A radiant smile graces her face, her composure somehow unaffected by this rare display of affection. At first Jaime thinks it is for Brienne: he knows the two are close. However, as she leaves, she nods her head softly at him and even a grown man like he cannot help the swoop of pride that rolls through him at the simple gesture.

When he returns to guard her later, she remarks that he fought well.

“For a one handed man?” he japes, watching as she breaks her impassive facade to roll her eyes at him. Since their last conversation, she maintained her impassive facade but it seems to have abated now, something he is inately grateful for.

“You fought well. I did not, as you insinuate, suggest that it had anything to do with the loss of your hand.” 

He grins then at her ability to maintain the Queenly composure he has come to associate her with. “Thank you, my lady.” _This is your chance,_ he thinks, _to apologise._

“My lady...” he begins, before she can stride out of sight, but hardly out of mind. Sansa halts, turning to him, one perfectly poised eyebrow asking the silent question.

“I wanted to apologise for my words before. It was not my place to presume what I did.”

“And what is that, Ser Jaime?” she responds sweetly. “The truth hurts more than we want it to – but you were correct. You spoke the truth and it hurt. I am broken, but I’m trying to put myself back together.”

“These strangers in my home are hardly of any comfort to me, you can imagine, but I am grateful for those who care about me and whom I care about in return. My sister, Brienne, Pod... even you, Ser Jaime. Never be afraid to speak your mind. I think sometimes there are cruel truths to be heard from damaged people to damaged people.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“Sansa, Jaime, I’m just Sansa.”

“You value our advice? Then hear this: you’re more than Sansa. All of us,” he gestures at Brienne, Pod, the soldiers, “we are here for you. You are the Queen that the seven kingdoms deserve and you are our queen until we die.”

For the first time in some weeks, Jaime finds himself uplifted as a true, bright smile spreads across his lady’s mouth and cheeks. She bows her head, regaining composure.

“Thank you, Lord Commander. Your words mean more than you know.”

“Jaime. My name is Jaime.”

“You... your words mean a lot to me... Jaime,”

It’s the first time she’s said his name and as she leaves with her guard in tow, he cannot help but feel satisfied in this first small victory

Later that night, when he returns to his room, he finds a bundle of fabric on his bed. He frowns, but when he shakes the cloth, it reveals a grey, fur-lined cloak. At first, he thinks it is simply the same as the cloaks she has gifted Brienne and Podrick, but when he runs his hand over the fur, he notices there is a gap and sees the small lion stitched there. For the first time in the months since he has been here, he feels a rush of affection for this woman he has sworn to protect. He wears the cloak the next day and his silent nod is all the acknowledgement she needs. They never talk about it again.

Life continues, but there is a definite change - Sansa respects him now. From the start she trusted him, believed in him, but respect was the one thing he had yet to earn. Now he finds himself possessing the honour he once thought lost.

Jon leaves one day to go and check on the progress of the dragonglass being mined at Dragonstone, taking Brienne with him (for he still does not trust the Kingslayer). That night, when Sansa retires, Jaime takes position outside her door, lacking as she is, her usual evening guard. He cannot dismiss the hesitation she threw at him before she retired and he finds himself wondering again why Brienne is the only one to ever stand here at night.

There are hours to go until morning and with nothing to do but stand, Jaime’s mind takes him away: time turns his thoughts from his curiosity and the sweetness that is all Sansa onto his betrayal and his sister. Shaking himself from the memories that plague him, he tries to focus on the movements of the torch on the wall to distract him, until he hears a low cry. He is instantly on alert, his ears attuned to the sounds that rip through the otherwise-silent halls. Another cry, almost sobbing echoes and it hits him: _Sansa._ He draws his sword, turning and pushing open the heavy wooden door quickly. Jaime would never forgive himself if something happened to Sansa on his watch. He is not about to take any chances with her life.

At first it is too dark to see a thing, but when his eyes adjust to the pitch black and the flames from the fire flicker across the room he sees that there is no intruder. Sansa, however, is writhing in her sleep, a shimmering sheen of sweat on her brow. As she cries out again, her hands fisting in the sheets, he realises she is having a nightmare.

“No... no, please... no!”

He is torn. It is not his place to be here, that he now understands. This is why Brienne guards her, Brienne stays here, Brienne comforts her – or at least he assumes. He is almost certain Sansa would not welcome his presence so late in such a state, but as he hears her cries and sees her pain his resolve to remain uninvolved crumbles.

Jaime approaches quietly, sliding to his knees by the bed so that he does not loom over her and gently places a hand upon her arm.

“Sansa? Sansa, wake up...” _My lady_ just doesn’t seem appropriate right now. “Sansa... you’re having a nightmare...”

She whimpers again and he grits his teeth, unwilling to think about the truth behind such fear. He shakes her gently, and he breathes in relief when she wakes, gasping in shock, her blue eyes alert and cheeks damp. Sansa sits up, her long fingers twisting tightly into the sheets as she recovers herself.

“Sansa... can I get you anything? What can I do?”

Sansa looks at him, her eyes wide and helpless. “I... I don’t know,” she whispers almost inaudibly. Her hands continue to twist, her eyes blinking back tears and with nothing else to explain it than that he cannot bear to look at her distress one moment longer Jaime reaches forward and she falls into his arms sobbing.

“I am sorry,” she garbles through tears. Sansa’s arms are hesitant but Jaime grabs them and guides them round his torso, enveloping her shaking form with his body.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Sansa.”

So they sit in the darkness, Jaime holding her until his legs numb and his arms ache but he cannot pull away and he does not wish to. Sansa in his arms is an invitation for trouble, not only from Jon and the Targaryen girl, but from himself. Sansa’s head on his shoulder and her hands clutching him to her  does not make it easily for his treacherous mind to avoid thinking about her in the way that he has for the past weeks. Her legs tangled in his does not discourage his more inappropriate musings. What he wishes more than anything is to know the feel of her lips on his, to familiarise himself with her through burning touch and heated passion and yet... she is his queen, his true queen and he _cannot_. Will not.

Sansa wakes at dawn, the first rays of sunlight pushing insistently into the darkened room. Jaime is sleeping lightly, his eyes closed and his face peaceful – more peaceful than she has ever seen it. She is about to move but she cannot disturb him – after last night she at the very least owes him some measure of rest. Instead she occupies herself visually tracing the contours of his face, slackened by sleep. Unable to resist, she brings her thumb to his face and brushes back the loose blonds locks from his forehead, her lips hovering near his. Alarmed by her posximity, she almost jumps but for her sleeping Lord Commander. _It couldn’t hurt... and he’d never know_. Sansa curses her impulses, but ignores them all the same as she tenderly brushes Jaime’s lips with her own. It ignites something, stokes the fire low in her belly and she unwittingly presses against his lips again, unable to stop herself.

Jaime’s eyes flutter and he blinks awake. Sansa jumps and scurries out, disentangling herself from his hold and she’s pulling on a loose gown when he seems to come around.

“Sansa, what...”

Sansa can barely hold back her tears and she’s doesn’t want to speak because she knows – she _knows –_ that Jaime will hear her heart breaking in her voice and she doesn’t ever want to talk about what she’s just done because she’s sure his rejection will

“Sansa, look at me.” Frozen, she hovers, so close to fleeing, to forgetting this ever happened.

“Please, don’t say it. Please.” She’s aware she’s begging and that it’s unqueenly, but she could not care less. Sansa is quite sure she would throw herself into a chasm before she ever let another person hurt her. _You fool, you fool._

“Sansa... why can’t you look at me?”

“Jaime... please just forget it. _Please._ ”

“Because you didn’t mean it?” If she wasn’t so hurt, Sansa could swear Jaime’s voice wavers, but he never wavers, he never...

“I’ve been hurt so many times, every bit of trust and affection I’ve ever given... please I cannot take another, Jaime.”

“You think I would reject you?” It’s the disbelief in his tone that finally causes her to turn to look at him. Jaime’s face is crumpled, his brow scrunched up and Sansa wants to kiss him again when it’s the very thing that got them in this mess.

“I love you.”

She stumbles. it’s inhuman, what she’s hearing, no, no there is definitely _no way_ that her Lord Commander, her knight, her Jaime, is sitting there declaring his love for her.

Sansa is wordless, and she feels disconnected, like she’s about to faint but Jaime jumps up and grips her arms tightly. “I love you, Sansa. I don’t know if that makes me an awful commander, or a shameful knight but, I love you. The gods, every man, that silver haired bitch, they can all choke on their values and their opinions because I care about you more than anyone Sansa and I’ll kill every last one of them and myself before I let anyone hurt you again.”

There are no words, but she thanks him the only way she can and finally she can accept that she’s kissing him and he’s kissing her back with nothing between them but air and love. She feels Jaime’s fingers at her scalp as he wraps her hair about his hand and tugs so that her head tilts and his mouth is gracing her pale neck. Sansa has never been one for unladylike actions but no one is here to hear her moaning as Jaime mouths her collarbone. They break, gasping and he holds her in his arms and she runs a hand over the nape of his neck, teasing the hairs there

Sansa pulls reluctantly from his hold, dressing herself with speed and combing out her long hair so it falls loose. “We should go,” she mutters to which Jaime smirks.

“As my queen commands,” Jaime adds, bowing in jest. Sansa punches his arm.

“Just because I love you doesn’t mean you get to disrespect me, Jaime Lannister.”

“Very well, my lady,” he concedes. “Shall we go?”

Sansa sighs, but she allows him to escort her from the room and into the hell that surely awaits them in the great hall.

Just before they enter, the hall deserted, Sansa spins and places a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” she whispers before they step further apart and the doors open, admitting them into the hall as Lord Commander and Queen, even if it’s a lie built for the benefit of the people.

Jaime hates hiding yet another relationship, but he understands its necessity so it astonishes him when Sansa reaches for his arm, looping it with her own. Sansa just dips her head and Jaime is silenced. It’s the only answer he’ll ever need and the one to a thousand questions.

Everyone’s heads turn as Lady Sansa and Ser Jaime enter, some amazed at the sight, some simply acknowledging it – Brienne and Arya – and, Sansa notes with satisfaction, some particularly infuriated: namely, the dragon queen and her brother. Once she would have heeded Jon’s warnings about Jaime, and his disproving looks that came all too frequently in the days following Jaime’s arrival. As it is, his disrespect for his own sister’s position and capability in ruling the north, and the lack of respect for his people has created an icy demeanor from which Sansa does not wish to stray. Neither does she wish to remember how her own brother values this queens opinions over her own. Sansa is well aware of the hatred Daenerys holds for Jaime, and her desire to see him dead.

“Sansa,” Jon acknowledges.

“I apologise for my tardiness. I was discussing the state of our training soldiers with Ser Jaime.” She is pleased to note the ugly grimace that surfaces on Jon’s face and smiles. “I hope I have not caused much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Daenerys remarks but the terse tone tells a whole other story. “Please, Lady Sansa, take a seat.” The dragon queen gestures to the chair along from Jon. Sansa bristles at the order and detaches her arm from Jaime’s. She will never take orders from anyone – especially not another would-be Queen again. Her time with Cersei did not weaken her – on the contray, she intends to give this Queen a taste of fire. _They say she does not burn. Perhaps we’ll see._

She cannot refuse the seat, so she sits, but there are other ways. “Jaime?” she asks innocently, gazing up at him where he stands behind her.

He plays along, realising her intent. “Yes, your grace?” He feels Daenerys’ burning glare on his face but cannot bring himself to feel much fear.

“Sit beside me would you? You know how much I value your advice and guidance on war matters.” Jaime is sure he is the only one who does not miss the slight twitch of her lips as Daenerys grits her teeth.

“Of course, your grace.” Sansa shoots a look at the boy beside her – the son of some northern lord.

“Would you mind terribly, Lord Umber?” The young boy – Ned Umber – Jaime recalls, scurries from his seat to take one a few places down. Sansa smiles brightly as Jaime takes his own seat.

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys calls coldly. Jaime slowly turns to look at her. “I think you are quite mistaken. Perhaps I am remiss in my knowledge, but I am quite certain that you should address Lady Sansa as ‘my lady’. She is no Queen.”

Jaime has had quite enough and Sansa’s hand reaches for his under the table, he squeezes it, tracing her skin with his thumb. He will not let this dragon bitch disrespect his Queen.

“There was no error. I made an oath to Sansa – she is my Queen, the true queen. I hold no other.”

Daenerys practically bursts into flames; she stands suddenly, her chair screeching across the stone floor. “Lady Sansa is no true queen. I am the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms.”

Sansa digs her fingernails into his palm and he feels the anger in the tension of her wrist.

“I did not swear fealty to you, with respect, Daenerys Targaryen. By all means, take the iron throne, rule Westeros, but I obey only one Queen. Sansa Stark. The Queen in the North.”

Sansa is nervous, he can feel it in her skin, but she is also furious, he knows. Jon sits there silent and accepting. And even Jaime cannot fathom why her eldest brother can abandon her so easily, let this hateful woman take everything Sansa has suffered and fought to regain. It shouldn’t be a Lannister defending her, it shouldn’t be _him_ , but he is the only one that will.

“You would disrespect me? You, the Kingslayer who slew my father!”

Jaime is about to respond – this silver haired queen knows exactly why he did what he did and has heard his condolence. He will not explain himself to her. As it is, before he can say anything, Sansa stands, placing an arm on his and shoots him a look to stay quiet. Before she turns to face Daenerys, he sees the fury and bitterness in her beautiful blue eyes. He is certain that the Targaryen girl is about to encounter a new kind of fire althogether.

“You claim he disrespects you, your grace, but here you are, condemning him yet again for actions he has already explained and sought and earned forgiveness for.”

“Jaime Lannister is a Kingslayer and an oathbreaker and if he seeks to usurp me, I shall have his life.” Sansa would tremble if it wasn’t for the lords around the room and Jaime standing next to her. If she intends to sort this mess, she needs to stay calm. Jon remains seated but his quiet reprimand of “Sansa,” only infuriates her further and Sansa cannot look at him, but to silence him.

“You do not get to speak to me, Jon,” she mutters, low. “Not about this.”

“And my queen, I assure you, Ser Jaime does not seek to usurp you: I have no desire to contest your – or my brother’s – rule. I only wish to hold my position as Lady of Winterfell. I would ask you to let this matter go and we can win this war and give you the throne you want so much. I care naught for it. I just want to serve my people.”

Daenerys narrows her eyes but sits down slowly as does Sansa. Jaime follows suit. She feels Jaime looking at her but she cannot bring herself to look at him for she fears she will snap. She is not angry at him – thought he ought to learn a little tact, she feels. No, it is the threat to his life that scares her most. It does not do to dwell on the thought of losing him, however, and Sansa pays attention as battle plans are made and drawn. Sansa speaks little, inputting only when necessary. It is not until the closure of the discussion, when Jon mentions Sansa and what will need to happen in Winterfell while they are gone, that causes her to pay heed to the conversation.

“Remain in Winterfell?” she exclaims, aghast. Jon just sighs and looks at her. “I will do no such thing.”

“Sansa, you are Lady of Winterfell, you are needed here to oversee the people left behind while we are at war. If anything should go wrong they will need you to-”

“They will need me to fight. Anyone can lead those left behind to safety should we lose. I need to be on the field with my people, fighting alongside them.” She is aware of Jaime’s nodding and the hum of assent that carries around the room and revels in it. Jon broods and the annoyance he holds is writ across his face.

“Fine, Sansa. It is as you wish, but you are not going into battle untrained.”

“Then I see no problem. Ser Jaime will train me and I will fight alongside you all.”

Sansa rises as the grouping disperses, taking Jaime’s arm once again. Jon notices it more clearly this time, she observes. They are just leaving when Jon calls to her and she reluctantly leaves Jaime’s side.

“Yes, Jon?”

Jon grips her arm tightly. “Sansa, don’t be a fool. Whatever is going on between you and Jaime, stop it now. He’s a Lannister and he may be loyal to us but he does not love you.”

“And you do?” she bites back. Sansa shakes her head in disgust. “Don’t presume to tell me what Jaime feels for me. You are not my father and at the moment, you’re not acting like my brother either. I will talk to you later.” Sansa leaves without another word, taking Jaime’s arm as he leads her from the hall.

“Are you alright?”

“Never better,” she whispers, trying to convince herself that there aren’t tears welling at the edges of her eyes, nor that she’s gripping Jaime’s arm so hard it’ll bruise because if she loses him life becomes unthinkable. It’s better not to think of that at all.


End file.
